


Broken Boy Soldier

by Lassroyale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Fisting, Angels, Angels are Dicks, Angst, Bitterness, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Brutality, Destiel Week, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Violence, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Pre-Season/Series 05, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Sexual Violence, Tearjerker, Violence, Violent Sex, Woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="u"><i>(Post-Season 04 finale/Pre-Season 05, ep.2)</i></span> </p><p>Zachariah tries to break the bond between Dean and Castiel by brutalizing Dean - with Castiel’s vessel.  Afterwards, things are not the same and perhaps they never will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Boy Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> ######  **[WARNING]** This story deals with graphic descriptions of brutality and non-con and makes no apology for it. It deals directly with violent rape, its aftermath, and, to a lesser extent, consent issues regarding the angels and their vessels. 
> 
> This may be trigger-y for some people.
> 
> This was originally written for a prompt on the _deancaskinkmeme_ on Livejournal. The prompter had requested the following: 
> 
> " _Zachariah possesses Castiel's vessel and rapes Dean, trying to break the bond between him and Cas. When Castiel gets back into his body, Dean is scared of him and Sam won't let him near Dean. Eventually [sic] Dean learns the truth and there's some fluff_."
> 
> I followed the prompt for the most part, but given the non-con nature of the story, I couldn't justify the "fluff" aspect and so ignored it. That said: while there's no fluff, there *is* a bit of hope in there… somewhere. 
> 
> Soo…I hope you enjoy the fic? Lol. Please read and review, if you so wish! ;)

 

###  **Broken Boy Soldier**

 

It could have happened anywhere. It shouldn't have happened at all.

As it was, it happened in the bathroom of a rundown gas station off of I-10, somewhere south of New Orleans. While the entire place had an unkept, pervasive feeling of tired neglect about it, the bathroom was especially bad.  It was grimy and in a perpetual state of disrepair.   There was unidentifiable scum in the cracks of the tile and every surface seemed slightly  _wet_. Even the walls bore a sheen of perpetual dampness, as if they too had been sweating all day in the Louisiana heat.

Dean stood in front of a small mirror which hung lopsidedly above the only working sink, and stared at his dingy reflection. He stared at himself like he would stare at an old friend who had - somehow - through the ravages of time become a stranger. The fine collection of lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes and mouth had deepened in the last few years, and had now begun to look less like laugh lines and more like true wrinkles. They were honest, inevitable; _real._ As real as the stress that gnawed at him, making him seem drawn and worn; as real as his anger, which in contrast gave him a mottled flush across the back of his neck and the apples of his cheeks. Dean's anger swept hotly through him as his thoughts turned towards its source.

_Sammy._

He braced himself against the sink, leaning forward with his fingers curled over the edge in a tight, white-knuckled grip. The porcelain was cracked and rough beneath his palms and the uneven surface bit sharply into his flesh; Dean barely noticed. He closed his eyes - mouth tight, jaw clenched - as he flashed back to the most recent argument that had erupted between him and his brother.

It'd just been one of many as of late, but this time Dean decided he couldn't regret what had been said; what _he_ had said. He _didn't_ regret what he'd said to Sam, as harsh as it'd been. For once, Dean wasn't going hold back the sharp edges of his tongue; for once, he was going to file his teeth into points and let them cut and tear.

Screw it; for once, Dean Winchester was going to be true to _himself_.

The lights overhead, already dim beneath a thick coat of dirt, began to flicker. Dean frowned suspiciously before recognition hit him, his eyes going wide with surprise even as his mouth went dry with apprehension.

It was Castiel.

Dean felt something creep up from deep within his belly and curl around his heart. It squeezed, and all at once his chest felt too narrow, too cramped to contain the riot of emotions which suddenly washed through him; emotions that he'd forgotten existed in the hard and fast turmoil of Lucifer's rising. He straightened and turned away from the sink as a fissure of something which felt dangerously like anticipation, sparked through him.

_Cas._

Elation stood shoulder-to-shoulder with anxiety, while anger and frustration circled at their feet. Amongst all of that - steadfast and so beautiful he was terrified to define it – a different emotion altogether, took root. Dean jammed his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling.

He'd thought that Cas was dead. Hell, they'd _all_ thought that Cas was dead - even Chuck. It had taken Dean every bit of his willpower to keep himself from throttling Chuck when the prophet had described (in no minor detail) what had happened to Cas.  What had happened as the archangel Raphael descended upon them in an awesome display of biblical power and righteous, ruthless fury; what had happened, when the archangel smote Castiel with gory and vengeful force. Even then, it was only his desperation to learn the truth of Cas' fate and Sam's presence (and hand, heavy on his shoulder) that had kept him from beating in Chuck's face.

Dean turned a little as Cas appeared - it was always a bit disorienting; one minute, there was nothing occupying the space in front of him, and the next, it was filled with the enormity of Castiel's presence. Dean's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as the sensation of reality rearranging itself (an ambiguous sense of things expanding, contracting, and then stitching back together with frayed thread) shuddered through the confined space of the restroom.

Still, the sensation was nothing compared to how Dean's world seemed to slip and tilt when he looked directly into Castiel's serious, dark blue eyes.

"Dean," said Cas. "We need to talk." His voice sounded a little odd, a little _off_ somehow; it seemed strangely formal, almost too stiff, and carried a smoother cadence. Usually, even though Cas sometimes sounded a bit like he was still learning how to fit words together (mostly when he was attempting to navigate through the strange "quirks" of human idioms) his speech was never noticeably formal. He always spoke slowly, thoughtfully, and with a kind of heaviness underlying it; an undercurrent of gravitas that now seemed to be missing.  Or, at the very least, lessened.

Dean shook his head to clear it; he was probably imagining things. He was damn tired, though his whole body was buzzing like he'd been spiked with adrenaline; Dean was abruptly aware of the apprehension and eagerness winding through him "Cas," he muttered, dragging his eyes away from the angel's keen gaze with some effort. "I- " Dean stopped, his throat dry, the words unraveling before he could say them. "Shit," he swore. He rubbed a hand tiredly across the back of his neck, quiet. "I'm glad you're okay," he finally conceded.

Something settled onto Castiel's expression then: a paper-thin veil of malice that stretched across his vessel's skin like a membrane. In the space of one heartbeat to the next, Castiel's bearing became decidedly malicious. It was all the warning that Dean got, and by then it was too late; much too late.

The punch caught Dean square across the jaw, Castiel's fist too solid - too unnatural - as it connected with bone and flesh. It felt as if he'd been hit by a lead pipe. He stumbled, his initial surprise and disbelief quickly discarded for rage and survival instinct. He feinted to the left and tried to duck around the angel's lunge, but he was just a second too slow; his body responded just a second too late.

Castiel delivered another punch with (what felt like) as much force as a sledgehammer. His fist caught Dean in the lower ribs, cracking one and lifting him up and off of his feet. Dean reeled and fell heavily back against the corner of the sink. He gasped as he struggled to pull air into his lungs, hands shaking and fingers clumsy and stupid as he fought to maintain a solid grip on the edge for support. Dean grunted and lurched towards the door when Castiel grabbed a fistful of his hair in a hard, uncompromising grip. Before he could fully react, however, Cas slammed his head down against the edge of the sink with inhuman strength.

There was a sickening _CRACK!_ as the porcelain began to buckle beneath the impact of Dean's skull smashing down upon the corner, and, with a long drawn-out creaking groan, the sink finally broke apart beneath the stress and crashed to the floor.

Dean went down with it. He choked as blood, warm and metallic, filled his mouth and gushed down the back of his throat. Dean shifted and coughed wetly; he turned slightly and spat out a mouthful of blood, a tooth skittering across the tile with it. It left a sticky, reddish trail in its wake. Dean felt a large gash over his brow, blood freely flowing from the wound and cutting red paths across his vision and down his face; the left side was already beginning to swell. Blood rolled down his chin and splashed against the tile in bright red droplets, turning pinkish-red a moment later when the bathroom slowly began to flood.

Dean's head throbbed viciously; the floor to pitched and rolled nauseatingly beneath his palms as he struggled to stand. The soles of his boots slipped and squeaked loudly through the dirty water that spread across the floor, the strong smell of sewage clogging his nostrils and making his stomach turn. Dean grit his teeth and forced himself to ignore it; he'd been in worse-smelling places, after all. Hell, he'd been in worse situations!

Still, beneath the fragrant aroma of raw sewage, and underlying the smell of his own blood and sweat, was an acerbic bite of fear that Dean hated. It was a type of fear he couldn't help, a type that triggered by adrenaline and instinct; it was the type of fear that he had experienced almost every day during his forty years in Hell. His stomach heaved in revulsion as flash-flood of memories tore through his mind, unbidden.

 _That_ fear was smeared carelessly across lips and ground permanently into the corners of his mouth; it tasted bitter and hot, beneath his tongue.

Dean heard Cas' footsteps behind him, each step coming down heavily; deliberately. Each one echoed off of the walls, insidious and filled with threats and dark promises.

"Fuck you, y'angelic sonofabitch!" spat Dean, his words thick and muddled as he tried to speak with a bitten tongue. "Fu-" his words were cut off when Castiel pressed his foot against the back of his head, crushing it against the sodden, cold floor. He felt pieces of cracked sink dig painfully into his swollen cheek. His breathing became pinched and labored when the angel nudged the toe of his other foot into the spot where his rib had broken.

The hem of Castiel’s coat trailed through the puddle on the floor as he bent and gathered another handful of Dean's hair between his fingers hauled him up. Dean's legs felt like rubber as he tried to push away, pain shooting through his chest and head. Cas looped an arm around his waist, supporting him, and then, almost carelessly, tossed him into the wall, face-first.

Dean's head smacked against the wall with a crack that resonated through the close, muggy air, momentarily rendering him incapable of thought or speech. He was dizzy and he hurt, no, scratch that; he _really fucking hurt._ Disoriented, he stumbled and began to fall, until Castiel pressed his body hard against his back.

With no effort whatsoever, the angel jerked Dean's arms above his head and pinned them there with one hand.

Cas’ fingers radiated a chill that bit deeply into his flesh, so bitterly cold that his wrists felt raw where they were clamped over his skin. Dean felt an unusual vibration humming beneath the pads of those strong, frigid fingers; a resonance that seemed off-key and discordant as it pulsated through his pores and threaded through his veins.

”Fushyou, Cash _tiel_ ,” he slurred. The way his face was mashed against wall made it hard to speak. Castiel cuffed the back of his head sharply, making Dean's teeth scrape against the brick with an ugly noise.

Still not speaking a word, Castiel hooked the fingers of his free hand into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, blunt nails scraping across his skin almost suggestively. He tore the pants from the Dean's body with one violent motion, the seams tearing as the denim was forcibly wrenched apart. Dean felt the humid air stroke his thighs and something in him snapped.

With a renewed effort he began to struggle desperately, panic, fear, and outright fury overtaking every other sense. He bucked against Cas, straining fruitlessly against the iron grip that held him pinned. _This couldn’t happen, it couldn’t! Not again…_ Hell was one thing; it was pretty much goddamned expected that he would be used as a convenient hole for the demons. _This_ was entirely different.

Castiel dropped his own trousers with more care. The sound of his pants sliding over his legs to pool at his ankles sent Dean into a blind panic. He shoved backwards with all of his strength and managed to upset the angel’s balance for a moment, but not loosen his grip. Dean drew his head back as far as he could and then, without thinking twice, bashed his forehead into the violently into the wall. When he drew back again, there was a smear of red on the drywall.

If he couldn’t escape he’d damn well make sure he was senseless.

As Dean attempted to smash his head into the wall once more, Castiel placed a hand beneath his chin and forced his face upward until he was staring blindly at the ceiling, effectively halting him from further harming himself.

“Oh no, Dean Winchester,” the angel reprimanded, “you must be awake for this.”

With those words and without warning or preparation, Cas released Dean's chin and shoved three fingers up Dean's ass to the knuckle. Dean’s cry was choked as he jerked and tried to bend away from the shock of the intrusion and immediate pain. Castiel responded by twisting his fingers cruelly, curling them inside Dean’s body as he methodically began to piston them in and out of his clenched hole.

He tore Dean as he added a fourth finger, then a fifth, blood flowing down over his hand and wrist to drip onto the floor when he suddenly made a fist and shoved it up into the other’s body, to the wrist. Muscle tore with an audible noise, skin stretching and ripping to accommodate the brutal intrusion. Dean’s shout of agony was louder this time, though it was reduced to a strained moan when the angel began to shove his fist in and out of him with mechanical precision.

Dean couldn’t remember being so torn or feeling so full. It felt like Cas was splitting him in two, reaching up through his ass to the grasp the very apex of his being and rip it apart. The pain wasn’t dull at all. It was instead so sharp and intense that he became violently sick from it. He vomited all over himself. The bile splattered against the wall and slid down his shirt, the smell of his sickness mixing with the aroma of blood and shit and the feverish, clammy sweat that rolled down the tense lines of his back.

Castiel removed his fist after an indeterminate amount of time, and shoved his fingers into Dean’s mouth before he could shut it. Dean could taste fluid and blood and the proof of his incontinence on his tongue. It filled his mouth and dribbled down his throat, and in that moment he hated himself.

He hated his weakness. He hated the fact that he had seen fit to trust a goddamned angel. They were no better than the demons; hell, they were fucking _worse_. Demons in a way, were honest. You knew what you were getting into with a demon right away.

The angels on the other hand, were sneaky bastards who told lies and forced their will upon those who questioned their coda. The angels toyed with people, making them feel things that were terrifying and wonderful, all at once. They made people feel hope in the stupid tilt of their head and serious, grave expressions.

And then those sons of bitches took it all away.

“Taste your shame, Dean,” Castiel muttered into his ear, shoving his slick fingers deeper into his mouth mouth. “Imbibe your filth as you did in Hell.”

Dean choked on the flavor of his humiliation and vomited again, bile and drool dribbling down his chin.

"Good soldier," praised the angel. With those words he thrust into Dean's torn, loose hole and slid into him until he was pressed tight along Dean's back, his breath cool and quiet in his ear. Cas began fucking into him with an even, almost bored rhythmn It was mostly a perfunctory act, or so it felt to Dean, and each thrust of Castiel's hips sent new pain, new hate, and new self-loathing coursing through him.

And all the while he whispered, "Good soldier," softly into Dean's ear.

 

 

 

 

**-VVV-**

 

When it was over and Cas pulled out of his abused body, Dean felt the energy drain from him as the angel's semen seeped down his legs. He collapsed into a worn heap against the wall and lay prone in his own blood, shit, and vomit, unable to will himself to move. Castiel tucked himself back into his pants, stooping to press his lips to Dean's brow as if in twisted benediction. "You're a good soldier, Dean," he intoned quietly, "you take your punishment with surprising fortitude."

The angel rose and turned away, pausing as he unlocked the door to the bathroom and walked out. As he disappeared through the doorway, Dean heard him say one last thing. "And now you know your worth."

Sam found him a moment later, his large frame filling the door and blocking out the light from the outside. "Dean I just thought I saw Cas - holy shit! Dean! Fuck, Dean!" cried Sam, panic and fear in his voice as he rushed to his brother's side.

Dean couldn't even acknowledge his brother's presence. He was ashamed that Sam found him like this; ashamed that he was too weak to hide the evidence of his own humiliation.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," said Sam, and Dean knew that his brother was just barely holding back his flood of panic by affecting a hard, decisive tone. Sam gathered him to his broad chest and carefully hauled him up. Dean shuddered with a fresh wave of nausea and pain as his injured body was jostled, but managed to keep his feet as Sammy gingerly pulled up his wrecked jeans and cinched them as best he could around his waist. Dean swayed on his feet, still gripped by the feel of Castiel's fist in his ass; still gripped by the feel of Castiel's breath across the back of his neck.

_'Good soldier...'_

Dean didn't hear Sam's shout as he crumpled and collapsed, unconsciousness finally offering its blissful embrace.

 

**-VVV-**

  
There were few emotions that were so poignant, so consuming, so destructive, as hate. It was a feeling that was foreign to Castiel, and yet he found that once discovered, he wore it easily - too easily. It slipped into the creases of his thoughts, lurking ever-present beneath even the most mundane musings. At the most random times it would come storming up from below, or perhaps it descended from on high; either way, Castiel had learned the feel of it settling over him quite well.

It was not a heavy emotion, either; rather, it made the inside of his head feel curiously empty, as if thoughts couldn't stick when such an emotion was present.

And it _was_ present.

Castiel could feel the hate spike like a solar flare through him when he thought about what Zachariah had done through him. It made him ashamed to think that he had once looked up to him, admired him even, giving him the respect he didn't deserve with the unquestioning loyalty of a younger brother. It made him hot, bothered, and it made his vessel's skin feel like it was alive, clawing over sinews and veins.

It made him want to launch out of the confinement of Jimmy Novak's body and wreck havoc on any being he came across. He wanted to burn the eyes from those whose souls were mired in sin. He wanted to scream with this true voice the pain and frustration, which was new to him and for which he had no tools to cope.

Mostly he wanted to hold Dean, rock him, murmur to him that he was sorry, that _he_ hadn't been strong enough to prevent Zachariah from sliding into his vessel alongside him. He wanted to apologize, hold Dean’s hand, and tell him that he hadn't had the strength to do anything but _watch_.

And it was that memory, the memory of Dean's body as he tore the man open, the memory of how Dean felt, clenched then loose around his fist and manhood, which allowed Castiel to truly understand him. Perhaps it was the first time he really did.

The memories made him hate himself, hate what he was, and hate the idea that maybe this had all been part of some divine plan.

Finally, Castiel understood Dean's self-loathing. Finally, he understood the doubt, the bitterness, the need to run and hide and pretend. Not for the first time he thought about Anna and how she had decided to forgo immortality and live a mortal life, cutting out her grace to fall, wingless, vulnerable, and _alone_ , from Heaven's lofty nest.

Even if he were to do the same, the memories would still be there. Castiel was certain of it. Those would never go away.

 

 

 

 

  
**-VVV-**

  
Dean knew he was there. Even through the fog of pain medication and hazy confusion, he could feel the bastard like a physical weight against him. He could feel him along the outline of the handprint on his shoulder, burning like cold hellfire; like ice twice frozen. The sensation cut straight to his heart and froze it solid.

He could taste him in the air itself and he could hear him in the patterned beeping of the monitors he was hooked into to. His presence rolled through his chest like miasma.

_Castiel._

The angel was in his fucking skin; Dean could still smell the odor of his sex mixed with sweat and blood.

Though Dean’s eyes were closed, he began to tremble uncontrollably. His heart rate accelerated, the monitors erupting into cacophony of whirrs and beeps. His palms began to sweat and his limbs felt like lead.

He couldn't move and he sorely wanted to. He wanted to scream and shout and curse. He wanted to hit and kick and fucking _hurt_ the sonofabitch. As it was he could only lie there and shake like a kicked dog. _Pathetic, fucking pathetic._ He was too weak, too worn out, too goddamn _scared_ , to do anything more than just crack open his eyes and glare blearily at the angel hovering near his bedside.

"Dean," said Castiel in a soft, grave voice. It was a familiar voice, one whose cadence didn't seem slightly off; one whose tone reflected nothing but pitiful misery.

Dean couldn't feel pity though; not when the doctors had said that it would take a few weeks to heal. Not when they had said that the extent of the damage done could have some permanent effects.

They had thought he was sleeping when they had pulled Sam aside to speak in the universally low, reserved tones of doctors around the world who had to bad news to bear. The words, 'infection' and 'ruptured' and 'psychological damage' had been used. They had made Sam promise to force Dean to see a therapist and maybe get him on some anti-depressants when this was all over.

 _Bullshit_. All Dean needed to do was recover enough to get out of this damn hospital bed and get back to hunting; back to trying to figure out a plan to kill Lucifer. Maybe then he could get back to a life free of celestial beings breathing down his neck.

All he knew was that he needed to _move_ and do something. He needed to drown in the hunt, in blood, in teeth, in the dust of bones.

"Dean," said Castiel again, shifting closer - too close, Dean could feel him at his back, pressing into him, his fist twisting inside of his body - "I want to explain. That was not me. Zachariah...overpowered me and possessed this body. "He," the angel paused, considering his next words, "he wanted to sever the bond between us."

Finally Dean found his voice, though he visibly recoiled when Castiel tried to touch his arm. "That's a fucking lie," he spat, his voice hoarse and laced with an indefinable emotion. It wasn't quite hate, but it was close. "There _is_ no bond between us to be broken. That was just another one of your fucking angelic lies."

Dean tried not to notice how Cas flinched from his words, drawing back stiffly as if a wall had suddenly sprung up between them. He tried not to notice the tightening of his heart, protesting the lie as it sloughed off of his tongue. He hardened himself, and closed himself off. His expression became smooth and flat; _dead_.

"Dean," said Castiel suddenly, "please...you must know...you must believe me...I would never do something that horrific to you." He sounded earnest and Dean could see the desperation in his dark blue eyes. He ignored it.

"Wouldn't you?" he said nastily. "You would if _God_ told you to. Maybe that was it, maybe the big guy upstairs told you to come down and rape a little sense into me. Make me tow the line, be Michael’s vessel, save the goddamn world." He shifted away, trembling again as Castiel leaned forward like he was unable to help but be inexorably drawn into Dean's orbit. "You two are all buddy buddy now, ain't you?"

Quicker than Dean could anticipate, Castiel reached out and grasped his arm, his fingers finding the handprint on Dean's shoulder with unerring accuracy. He stared at Dean, pain, regret, and distress apparent in the tilt of his body and the deep wealth of despondency in his eyes. Cas opened his mouth but was interrupted before he could say anything in response.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” roared a voice, two parts furious and one part fearful. Sam barreled into the room, his long legs closing the space between the door and the hospital bed, quickly. Sam forcibly inserted his body between Cas and Dean, and shoved the angel back with strength augmented by adrenaline and anger.

“You have no right to be here,” spat Sam, “not after what you did.” Sam shoved Castiel again and thrust him up against the wall. “You stay away from Dean,” he warned, as he wrapped one large hand around Cas' throat, “or I will find a way to kill you.”

Castiel looked over Sam’s shoulder at Dean, who was resolutely staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He sighed and nodded. When Sam loosened his grip, the angel disappeared with a rush of air.

 

 

 

 

  
**-VVV-**

  
Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that had passed through him when Castiel had laid his hand over the brand on his shoulder. It had sent a spark of something benign, almost pleasant through him; it hadn’t felt malevolent in the least. And yet, whenever he thought about the angel, the sharp flavor of repulsion made his stomach turn.  
Despite Sam’s best efforts to be vigilant, he couldn’t always be there. During one of those times, Castiel came to Dean again.

“Just can’t follow a simple order, can ya?” muttered Dean, as he picked disinterestedly at a can of pineapple the hospital had provided with his meal. He sniffed at a piece, frowned, and then pushed it to one corner of his tray. “I was thinkin’ about what you said,” he muttered gruffly, “and I decided you were tellin’ the truth.”

Castiel sat down in a seat near the foot of the bed and looked at Dean carefully. “What changed your mind?” he asked, after a few minutes of strained silence had stretched between them. Dean looked hard at him, scrutinizing the angel for an uncomfortably long time.

Finally, he looked away. “Zachariah paid me a visit,” he conceded at last, “and that sonofabitch tried to make me agree to be a goddamn angel condom for Michael. I told him to stick it when the sun don’t shine, and you know what his response to that was?” Dean swallowed, angry and hurt, unshed tears shining in his green eyes. “He called me a ‘good soldier.’ That fucking asshole.” Dean's voice broke, and he looked down angrily, his fingers cramped tightly around the hospital bed's stiff, white sheets. His hands were shaking badly.

Castiel could feel something tighten in his chest at the thought of Zachariah coming anywhere near Dean again. He moved closer, stopping immediately when Dean flinched back from him.

“Don’t Cas, just don’t,” said Dean harshly, a few tears rolling down his swollen face. “I can’t even stand the fucking sight of you.” He wiped angrily at the wetness trailing down his face, but he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. “It was _your_ body, your smell, your fucking _voice_ …it’s all I can think about when I look at your goddamn face.”

Castiel sat down heavily, feeling like something had just been ripped from him; something necessary, something vital to his being. He looked miserably at Dean, but kept his distance. “Will it ever be okay?” he asked solemnly.

“I dunno,” Dean answered.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“As you wish.”

Castiel remained sitting by Dean's bedside, a heavy, oppressive silence descending between them, as he stared helplessly at him.  Dean closed his eyes against the weight of Cas' stare, turned his head and pretended to sleep.

For now, that would have to be enough.

(The End.)

**Author's Note:**

>  **(UPDATED as of 9/17/2013:** Edited and slightly tweaked from original form. Prompt details and additional warnings added to the Author's Note at the beginning of the fic.)


End file.
